


saturn's ring

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: England - Freeform, england nt - Freeform, three lions, three lions on a shirt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dele and Eric finally figure out how to tell themselves about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	saturn's ring

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourseparatedcities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/gifts).



> Posting this fic before the England vs Wales match, lest it goes pear shaped and I can't deal. Written for a prompt.

After almost a year of living in each other’s pockets -- as much as life and circumstances would allow-- Dele thought he knew enough about Eric not to be surprised by anything. 

For instance, Eric’s friendship with the lads from Everton, Stonesy especially. 

To the lad’s credit, Stonesy was easy to be friends with, his manner as laid back as the flip flops he’d wear along the quiet streets of Chantilly, his laugh low as he took the ribbing from both of them. 

Dele knew Eric spoke Portuguese fluently, and also knew that for all his allegiance to England, Eric planned to return there one day. 

“A true Englishman,” H observed drily after Eric’s press conference against Portugal two weeks ago, “God save the queen, but the weather is better in the Algarve.”

Eric comfortable and sturdy as the new position he’d made his own, funny and polite off the field as much as he was combative and solid on it. His accent and manner very much him, very much there as the now ubiquitous three lions dotted around the camp. 

Dele might have admitted (if pushed) that at times he took things for granted. 

Like, probably that zinger @Tottenham Hotspur and @EricDier for binning the flowers sent on National Friendship Day, and Eric not responding. 

Not that Eric _had_ sent him flowers mind, but Dele savaged the thought online, because that’s what you did, right? Eric could take it, because he’d always did. 

Eric just Eric, as they came to a shop with the St George’s cross hung from a flagpole, as a welcome to the English in the midst of their town, with headless mannequins standing underneath the flag, sheathed in yards of lace, as if party to a wedding. 

Harty had told him over a third of people in Chantilly spoke English as a first language, but the lady who greeted them with a roll of ribbon in her hands obviously didn’t get the memo. 

_”Bonjour, messieurs!_ ”

 _”Bonjour,”_ the trio greeted, as they mimed through the hellos and meet and greet, only for the woman to continue chattering in French. Stonesy’s eyes widened, and Dele did that thing where you didn’t know what the other person was speaking about in a foreign language and just - smiled. Eric straightened from his slouch, put his phone away, and answered, saying something about - the weather?

_“Ah!” The older woman answered, pleasure and surprise making her face almost pretty. “Parlez vous Francais?”_

_”Un peu, je ne practique pas beaucoup-”_ Eric started, before continuing, his ‘ums’ and ‘erms’ minimal. 

Behind Eric’s back, Dele shot Stonesy a look, only for Stonesy to draw his shoulders towards his hair, and turned his palms upwards, the universal sign of _I don’t even know, mate._

So, this was new, Dele narrowed his eyes as he looked at his friend. Eric was actually speaking French, like _conjuga-_ ? Yeah, conjugating nouns - no verbs, you conjugate verbs- and everything. 

The English NT had been fielding players to face the media and do media duties since they had been here. Eric stepped up to the podium and took it on like everything else Pochettino and this season had thrown at him, with characteristic grit and good humour. This was no different, still the same Eric but _foreign_ as the language he was speaking right now. 

_“Ah, bonne chance au tournoi- sauf contre nous- bien sûr!”_

_”Ah Merci, Elodie,”_ Eric laughed, laugh lines stamping the corners of his eyes, phone in pocket and hands out of pockets. Wait, when did Eric get her name? Before Dele could dwell on _that_ , a flurry of handshakes all around, before she waved a hand at them and slipped into her shop, pointing to the flag of St George. 

While Stonesy ribbed Eric about his French skills, Dele walked ahead, seesawing his hands as he walked along the narrow strip of pavement, hearing the bits and pieces of conversation between Eric and Stonesy. Briefly glanced over his shoulder seeing Eric all blond and rose in the summer sun, his face flushing as he told Stonesy that his French wasn’t that great.

Looked down again at the strip of pavement, focusing on one foot in front of the other, Eric’s face swimming in front of his eyes and _oh_ , Dele thought as he wobbled on a step. _When did that happen?_

***

“What do you mean, what _are_ we?” Eric wrinkled his nose and squinted his eyes against the heat. Or probably against Stonesy’s amused look over his cup of tea. Only John Stones could rock up in Chantilly and charm the French ladies behind the counter into giving him a cup of milky Yorkshire tea.

All this with bad school boy French, _”Plus lait, s’il vous plait?”_ and his bright friendly Northern ways, Eric wasn’t surprised that Stonesy got his tea, and a complementary macaroon on top of that. A pop of yellow against the sleek white and navy colour scheme of oversized tea cup and saucer. 

_That question on the other hand..._

“Oh,” Stonsey shook his head, as he lifted the cup of tea to his mouth and took a sip. “I mean, both of you came to this team as midfielders right? But you’re training with us.” 

Eric looked out beyond their table and beyond. Hodgson had given the players the morning off, encouraging them to go out and be a part of the town which would be hosting them for the entire competition. 

“Not that this gives you permission to go on the lash, gentlemen,” Hodgson smiled as if he’d just remembered a secret joke. The observation/invitation at end of their first sit down meal, served by silent waitstaff. “But if you want to go for a coffee, see the town and improve your French, please do." 

As surroundings went, you could do worse than stopping in Chantilly; according to the bumf it had a population of 11,000, and horse racing was the lifeblood of the town. 

A quiet, genteel place folded away from the hustle and bustle of Paris fifty minutes away, Eric had to admit that it _was_ lovely, castle like buildings with turrets guarding the banks along calm lakes, framed by green hedges and bright flowers. Everywhere clean and storybook pretty. 

The coffee shop they stopped at now no different, with chairs and tables arranged nicely on a raised balcony, overlooking neat flowering gardens. 

“Well,” Eric gently tilted his cup of tea towards himself, careful not to spill any over the brim, and went for the phrase summing up his life in football in its entirety so far. “Football is crazy, right?” 

“Tell me about it, I-” 

“All right?” That was Gary Cahill, reaching for and sitting at their shared table. Big enough for five of them on this jolly, Jamie and Dele rounding up the numbers. 

Team loyalties out of the way - _effing Chelsea_ -Cahill was okay. A veteran of a couple of international tournaments, he’d spent his time in the camp dishing out bits of advice, and wasn’t stopping now. 

“Tournament football is- it’s different from the Premier League, to be honest. It feels... _slower_ for one,” Gary started, “and the referees do whip out the cards right quick, so - ” 

Eric saw when Dele looked up from his phone, his eyes sober, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Dele had been distant and serious lately, and Stonesy’s question only seemed to underscore it. 

_“We all need to be careful,” Gary finished, leaning back in his chair, his gestures expansive, smiling as the French waiter served their orders in oversized mugs all around. “But guys, just enjoy the tournament, don’t be afraid to express yourselves. Play the form that got you into team consideration in the first place.”_

***

Most days, after training, Dele and Harry stayed behind and practiced shooting drills.

100 balls in the hour, and various positions from inside the box. Dele practiced from shooting out wide, visualising what to do, where the ball was going to go.

Header, shoulder, foot. Minute shifts in the body to get that extra centimetre. Practicing with the tournament ball against instep, off the laces, hitting the back of the net. 

Once the ball was in motion, there was nothing better. This and only this. The ball responding to Dele’s machinations, the minute calculations of action and reaction instinctive as Dele did _more_. 

With football, he never had to think of anything else, want anything else. 

The sharp whistle from the assistant trainer on the side cut through his thoughts, the training over. 

“Good one,” Harry reached over with a high five and clapped his palm against Dele’s. 

No idle boast, it had been a good practice; something that they’d carried from Tottenham with them, training hard, yes, but smart too. If Dele couldn’t get into the starting XI by playing behind H., well he’d have to work harder from his new position getting balls to Harry. 

The aim still the same; to get on that field, be in that starting XI. He wanted this tournament, because he’d been working towards this before he even knew what _this_ meant. 

“‘S alright,” Dele said, jogging over to the side of the field to retrieve their sports drinks from the cooler. Chantilly might have been cooler temperature wise than their upcoming match in Marseilles, but there was still enough heat and humidity to tax your physicality. Dele threw the bottle at Harry, who caught it easily with one hand. 

“H, don’t forget the presser tomorrow, eh?” 

“I won’t,” Harry shouted at Keith’s rapidly retreating figure. 

Dele swilled a mouthful of drink in his mouth and spat it out. 

“Uh oh,” Harry said, “I know that face.”

“What face?”

“You know, when you’ve done something wrong, and you want to put it right. You’ve been having that look on your face for a couple of days now.”

Dele dropped into a stretch, ready to go through the cool down sessions. Harry didn’t know the half of it, as Dele was testing these new feelings himself, trying them on and see if they fit, like one would new trainers. Not wanting to share this with Harry - not yet, not until he figured it out for himself first- Dele brought up another subject that had been gnawing at him for a while now. 

“They never ask me.”

“Sorry?”

“Doing the pressers, doing interviews on behalf of the team, they’ve never given me the responsibility.”

“No one really needs it,” Harry mirrored Dele’s movement, knowing that they’d be doing extra recovery tomorrow before everyone. “It’s just going out to the press, trying to talk up the team’s chances, making the press happy, and keeping everything controlled. It’s nothing, you know.”

“It isn’t, not really.” On his back now, Dele pulled his right knee against his chest. “It isn’t and you know it.”

“Rash and yourself are the two youngest in the group, and -”

Dele pushed himself into a seated position, his tone sharp as he interrupted, “I’m not Marcus.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry agreed amiably, as he pushed himself to his feet. Before Dele had the chance to sit and stew, Harry offered a hand, hoisting him up to his feet. “But you’re -” Harry stopped in mid sentence for a few seconds, biting his lips as if he were arguing with himself with what to say before he gave up.

“Go on.”

“I’d hate to make you big headed.”

At Dele’s small noise of frustration, Harry touched his arm. 

“Dele, listen,” Harry began as soon as Dele turned to face him, “You’re what the Yanks would call ‘box office’. You have the skills, or else you wouldn’t be here, and on top of that, you’re an interesting character. Besides,” Harry lightly thumped Dele’s shoulder, “ It’s not as if you’d _want_ to do the pressers anyway; you just don’t want it to be _their_ choosing for not letting you do things, more than anything.”

“You’re saying?”

“I won’t tell you to wait your turn; you’ve never done so, and it’s only benefited everyone,” Harry tugged off his shirt as soon as they reached the locker room. “I guess I’ll fall back on Wazza’s advice when he tells us to enjoy it, yeah? Take it in, because it’s our first international tournament. The pressers will come soon enough, promise. When they do though,” Harry sobered up. “You need to be ready.”

***

After his shower, Dele changed, rocking up into the lounge before dinner, Harry’s words ringing in his ears, only to find himself pausing by the doorway, caught short by the scene before him.

The lounge looked like something out of those glossy magazines you’d thumb through on airplanes. Plush seats in neutral fabric and bright cushions made for catching a kip; the room glowing from lamps that diffused the harsh light. 

In the middle of the sitting room, stood Eric, Stonesy with Leo - one of the stuffed lions. On the sleek, low coffee table in front of them, a leather box opened with a pair of scissors and some red string peeking out. 

Wazza, Harty and Cahill made this room the social hub of the camp. Instead of players being locked away in their own bedrooms in their downtime, this was the room where you floated in after practice. The games room the next room nearby if you wanted games with your friends, but this one was a hub of sorts. 

If you wanted to have casual conversations with your teammates, this was the place. Or to check emails and read a book, it happened here. 

No headphones allowed in this part of the hotel, as determined by the senior players (although phones were allowed). so Dele had left his behind, his phone in his pocket. 

Dele watched Eric as he finished tying the string to Leo’s front paw. 

“Wait,” Eric grinned, as he took two steps back, holding his hands in front of him as if framing a picture. In the grand sitting room, with the lights glowing under lampshades, and the dusk stilling in, Eric’s hair longer than he normally had it, fringe falling across his forehead. 

To people on the outside- Eric might have reminded them of a too earnest first year uni student, orderly and intense - but in smaller spaces, away from the crowds, once he felt comfortable, this was Eric. Silly at times in the best way, and up for anything, Dele thought as he leaned against the doorjamb, watching his teammates and their carrying on. 

“I don’t look too daft with this, do I?” Stonesy spun around, stopped in mid spin as the thought seemed to hit him. “Wait, I’m walking with a cuddle toy on my back, never mind. Don’t answer. Me dignity just ran off hand in hand with the shame, I think.”

“You look amazing, mate,” the bubble of laughter in Eric’s voice suggested otherwise. “Honestly.”

After Smalling’s carrying around Leo as if he were a well- rag doll- Stonesy decided on another approach. Carrying around the cuddle toy as if he were some sort of backpack. Eric stepped forward, fussing over the slipknot he made to the left paw. Like everyone else after training, Eric dressed in simple top and black bottoms and soft slippers. 

“Welllll,” Stonesy dragged out the word, as if he were unconvinced. 

“Mate, it will be amazing. Roll with it.” 

“Oh, all right.” 

The smile Eric shot at Stonesy was blinding, and Dele couldn’t blame Stones for smiling back. 

“Uh oh,” he sing songed, taking a step forward. “What happened here?”

Stonesy rolled his shoulders, the shrug eloquent and telling. “You know.”

Dele shook his head, “Amateur,” he tsked. “You know you aren’t supposed to get caught, yeah?”

“No one saw me!” Stonesy exclaimed, eyes wide with disbelief. “I got stitched up.”

“Pull the other one,” Dele laughed, as he stepped into the lounge and threw himself into a nearby plush chair, cushions and sturdiness absorbing his impact. 

“Dier’s helping me with the straps for Leo,” Stonesy explained as he hooked the straps in his thumbs and tried a pose you’d see in a sporting catalogue. “He says it’s brilliant, but you know him, wind up merchant, anything for a joke.”

Eric now busy gathering up the bits; string, scissors, tape measure and putting them back in the little leather case provided by the hotel. His hair long enough for the fringe to hide his features. His movements sure, and quiet. 

Stonesy stood there, and although he seemed happy enough with the joke, Dele knew one offhand comment could sour the whole team spirit they were going for. 

“You look mint,” Dele gave an ‘Ok’ sign, thumb and index fingers meeting at the tips, forming an ‘O’. “Good effort.”

Eric looked up at the praise, the light making his eyes bluer than usual, and for a few seconds, their expression unreadable, before he straightened up and lightly thumped Stonesy on his shoulder. “Go on, then. Walk around, see how it feels.”

“Alright,” Stonesy agreed, “I’ll see you at dinner, yeah? Dele.”

Dele stayed sprawled across the chair, graceful as a dying starfish, as he waved goodbye. Stones swaggered out of the room with Leo on his back, as if he were wearing an LVH leather backpack instead of a cuddle toy. 

 

Both of them alone in the study, a short silence as Eric placed everything in the box, before he straightened up. 

“Dellboy,” Eric greeted, as he made his way towards Dele’s chair . “Alright?” 

“Yeah,” Dele’s gaze drifted from Eric’s feet to his face. Eric now boasting a bit of a scruff on his chin, his hair puffing up around his head like feathers on a newly hatched chick. Dele worried his bottom lip in thought, finally accepting the fact that whatever _this_ feeling towards Eric still fit. “You?”

“You’re not still sulking about the pressers, are you? They’re a bit of a ‘mare to be honest, budge up.” 

Eric snuggled into the space that Dele had cleared for him in the chair, their shoulders and thighs touching. 

“Dier, I was just getting comfortable.”

“Whinge, whinge, whinge,” Eric laughed, not at Dele’s half hearted complaints, but from the relief at Dele just - making room for him in the chair without hesitation. Even though things felt a bit weird (and he had yet to put a finger on why), they were still comfortable around each other. 

It also helped that Dele had the BMI of a flagpole, their shared chair pleasantly snug. 

The chair wide enough and deep enough for their feet to swing freely, only the tips of their socks -no shoes allowed in this part of the hotel- dragging along the carpet. 

“Still uncomfortable?” Eric asked, swinging his sock clad feet off the edge of the chair. 

“Wanker,” Dele said softly, staring ahead at the decorations on the walls. Eric briefly followed Dele’s line of sight - mirrors on the opposite wall done in ornate shapes and sizes to give the room depth and light. 

Eric took the opportunity to look at Dele. From his haircut with its fade, to the high, dark curve of his eyebrows the slope of his nose, the pout of his lips as if he walked around the world with a perennial amusement. Although right now, less amusement and more perturbed. Eric moved closer, nudging his shoulder against Dele’s. 

“Honestly, no one wants to do a presser.”

“Easy for you to say, Diet,” Dele began, “you’re already being looked at as captain material-”

“I’m not.”

“Whereas I’m looked as the guy who saw red.”

“Retrospectively.”

“Ha, ha. Joke.”

“You only want to do the presser because everyone else has done it.” Eric pressed his cheek against the leather, head and body turned towards Dele, feeling relaxed to the point of drowsy. “You’re pretty competitive.”

“No, it’s not about that.” 

Eric raised his eyebrows in surprise at Dele’s declaration. 

“It’s - “ Dele rubbed at the bridge of his nose with his index and middle finger, his lashes long and sooty as he rubbed at his eye. “Everyone keeps bringing up the red, and wondering if I’ll be a liability, to the point where they think I’m going to -”

Eric understood. After the three match ban, the papers gave the feeling to all that Dele was now a concern, a ticking time bomb.

They hadn’t been around Dele to see his frustration nor his shame when he had turned up to training next day, eyes rimmed with red, his manner subdued. Pochettino didn’t have to give Dele the blow dryer treatment, because Dele already knew what his actions meant for his team. 

Without thinking, Eric reached across Dele’s thigh for his hand and threaded their fingers together, half wondering how Dele’s hands still could be refrigerator chilled at this time of year. 

“Doing a presser won’t help,” Eric murmured. “At the end of the day, they can only go by what’s on the pitch. If we keep our form, and fight for each other, everything else is old news. ”

Eric swore he felt his bpm double when Dele squeezed their fingers together, and if he suddenly became light headed- oh- breathing helped. 

“Happy belated best friend’s day.” 

“Tosser,” Eric’s grin softened the scolding, because you never could stay angry at Dele for long. He made it too hard. “You’ve ruined it. It’s gone now. Too late.”

Dele pressed his cheek against the leather, their faces close enough for Eric to see the slight difference between the dark brown of iris and black of pupil. 

“You’re a-”

Dele got cut off as Danny, Stonsey and Barkley piled in. 

“Where’s H and Walks?” Eric asked, as he pulled his hand away from Dele’s, wondering if it was wishful thinking, or if Dele had given his fingers a final squeeze as he pulled away. 

“With Harty, Milner and Wazza,” Danny yawned widely behind his hand, crossing his slipper clad feet at his ankles. “Golfing. They should be on their way back now,” he looked at his watch. “In time for dinner.”

“Are we allowed to have dessert tonight?” Barkley asked, “I have a hankering for uh... “ he paused, “Gâteau St Honoré?”

“When we win our first match,” Eric piped up, seeing his teammates’ faces droop with disappointment. 

“That’s well harsh, Dier,” Danny objected, looking so comically stricken, Eric had to clamp his hand across his mouth to stop laughing. “Tell him, Dele.”

Dele laughed, “Why me?”

“If I have to say...” Danny began. 

Eric shifted forward, ready to make his point, only for Dele to pat his thigh. “Dier isn’t wrong. Strict,” and Eric found himself at the end of a warm, affectionate look. “But not wrong. If we win our first match, Eric won’t moan-”

“Hey!”

“- and,” Dele wasn’t finished, the glint in his eye now sly, Eric unable to look away. “He won’t eat dessert when we do.”

Betrayal, Eric fumed as the room exploded in whistles and clapping, cut the deepest from those whom you were closest.

***

The night before the first match, Eric couldn’t sleep.

It might have been the fact that they were in Marseilles, on the eve of their campaign, the city a heaving, living thing. You knew when England fans were around, the strains of _God Save The Queen_ heard in snatches on the air. The atmosphere in the air anticipatory, the disappointment of the World Cup forgotten. 

The English longing for any sort of international glory palpable, as supporters launched into a boozy rendition of the ‘Three Lions’ song _Three Lions on a shirt/ Jules Rimet still gleaming/thirty years of hurt/never stopped me dreaming_

Eric stood by the window, one finger pushing open the blinds. Skies outside finally dark, the screens in the fan zones in the distance showing flashes and highlights of the matches the day before. Just across the road, the distinctive St George’s flag tied around a fan’s neck billowing behind him like a cape, dressed like a knight of the crusades. 

A muffled knock on his door startled Eric out of his reverie, as he glanced at his watch. Everyone should have been in bed right now. Quickly Eric crossed the room, and cracked his door open. 

“Dele!” Eric hissed, half scandalised. “You should be in bed?”

Dele leaned against the door jam, his face bright with anticipation. “Let me in.”

“You _do_ know we have a match tomorrow? You should be asleep?”

“You’re still up.”

Not wanting to argue and get both of them in trouble with the gaffer, Eric opened the door and Dele scrambled in, clad in the England kit of polo top and dark shorts. His hair sheened with damp, and he smelt of lemons, as if he’d just come from the shower. The heat of Marseilles made you go from daisy fresh to wilting and drenched with sweat in the space of twenty minutes. 

“Tomorrow, when we’re forced to fill in the sleep section of our app, I’m going to say you kept me awake,” Eric warned as he retreated to his bed, air pleasantly chilled by the a/c, because the temperature in Marseilles competed with the in the Algarve this time of year. 

Thirty eight degrees C in the shade, no joke. 

Dele followed, kicking off his shoes as he launched into the bed, body bouncing beside Eric’s. 

Eric turned down the volume on the TV, with the remote, Canal+ carrying the highlights of the matches played so far. Dimitri Payet’s assist and goal against Romania seemed to be a favourite, no prizes as to why. 

“Have you seen the flags and heard the noise outside? It’s brilliant, ” Dele began, as he rolled over on his stomach, resting his upper body on his elbows. “I left my window open for _ages_ , because I wanted to hear everything.”

Eric crossed his arms under his head as he looked up at Dele, “I guess you aren’t nervous.”

“It’s football,” Dele frowned, as if he’d never heard of the word 'nervous' before. Along with other words like _wallflower_ , _timidity_ and _doubt_ .“You can’t be nervous about football. I’ve been working towards this all my life.”

“It’s the Euros though. It’s - “

“Still football,” Eric felt the movement as Dele rolled over, back against the mattress, fingers linked, hands resting on his stomach, face turned towards the ceiling. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” Dele stared at somewhere far beyond the room. “For a long time,” he murmured, “it was the only thing that made sense, the only thing I needed.”

Eric didn’t know how to respond to _that_. 

Dele rarely spoke about life before MK Dons academy and his first team coach, only life after. 

If and when he lost himself and did so, he’d politely change the subject. 

Following instinct, Eric turned on his stomach, his eyes on Dele’s face, thrown into shadows by the bedside lamp. His eyes normally a deep, dark brown, now glowed and pulsed like heated copper around onyx under its light. 

“And now?”

“It’s still the only thing that makes sense. Still the only thing I need.”

A warning, then, before Eric stepped on the deck. 

“You know what I always say -” Eric began.

_"O futebol é de loucos.”_

Just like that, the bottom fell out of Eric’s world. 

Living in London, and speaking with his friends from Portugal, the language was never far from Eric’s ear; but he’d never heard it around Spurs, which had French, Flemish and Spanish languages plaited with around accented English. In the England camp, Eric heard some Spanish (Milner) and French (Hodgson), while the rest of the lads all spoke English, flavoured by their distinct accents, from Barkley’s Scouse with the tightly rolled vowels, to Vardy’s distinct Sheffield lilt, touched with the East Midlands’ distinct honk. 

Not that Eric minded the absence of Portuguese in his daily life; he’d made the (professional, personal) choices he made. English his first tongue, but Portuguese - the language that shaped him in a lot of ways- introduced him to football, launched him on his way to here. 

Portuguese, the language he carried in his heart and head. English his mother tongue, the one he was born speaking. Portuguese, through hard won effort, his. 

Dele’s accent too sharply glottal for the subtle nasal sounds and the soft sibilants of the language, but still, the language of _home_ offered in a place where he didn’t expect it. He wanted to hear it again. “What did you say?” Eric asked, his voice a tremor at its edges. 

“Wait, let me try again,” Dele held his index fingers up in the air, narrowed his eyes in concentration. “My accent’s a bit shit, especially with the s’s.”

It took a him split second, as if working out an instruction screamed to him from the sidelines by Pochettino. A nod as if in understanding the points from an unseen tutor, Dele repeated the phrase.

“ _O futebol é de loucos_. It’s like that, right?”

“Yeah, Dellboy,” helpless against the feelings swarming through him, Eric pressed his forehead against Dele’s, feeling the warmth of Dele’s breath ghosting across his lips. “Yeah.”

“You’re morphing,” Dele murmured, as Eric’s eyes slid half closed against the feather brushes of Dele’s fingers against his forehead. “Soon, you won’t be able to see the field, sake of your fringe. You’ll look like-”

“Shaggydog.”

“Still a Direwolf,” Dele pointed out, eyes and mouth soft. Unable to stop himself, Eric touched Dele’s jaw with shaky fingers. 

It wasn’t as if they hadn’t touched each other before, they had done; big, tactile, galumphing hugs on pitches, both domestic and foreign. Wild with the pleasure of a goal and win, arms around each other, screams of joy in each other’s ears. 

Not like this though; each touch betraying an intimacy, Eric knowing his feelings writ large across his face like a football supporter’s banner.

“Dele-” Eric began, his words failing him. So many questions to ask, so many variables on the answers. 

Dele raised a hand, his knuckles brushing against Eric’s cheek. When his face broke into a starburst of a grin, the tightness in Eric’s chest loosened. Going on emotion, Eric closed the distance between their faces, eyes fluttering shut, Dele's mouth opening under his, his arm across his shoulders. 

Later, when Eric pulled back, his heart hammering in his ears, the taste of Dele on his tongue, he scanned Dele’s face, cataloguing every single expression there. Felt the brush of Dele’s hand as he linked their fingers together, and squeezed. 

“This also makes sense," Dele said. 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

>   * The English NT have three stuffed lions. Kitkat, Lenny and Leo. Leo belongs to the players 
>   * Each English player has his own app in terms of performance, nutrition and sleep cycles that they have to fill in. We also have Roy Hodgson, so all this is moot ;-; 
>   * Three Lions (It's Coming Home) is an old song. From 1996! It's in the English supporter's song book, now
>   * England's first match was against Russia. 1-1, England have never won their first match in a Euro. Ugh. 
>   * Title taken from Poema de Amor by Braga. 
>   * Dier supposedly speaks some French ( to be fair, most Portuguese I know have an affinity for that language) 
>   * The English NT are based in Chantilly. Historically, the England NT have had a siege mentality in terms of being holed up in their hotels, but in the last two tournaments, the team has been encouraged to go out and explore their surrounding towns 
> 



End file.
